


Negative Space

by ameliafuckingshepherd



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Mark, Depressed Harry Potter, Drarry, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Self Harm, Suicidal harry potter, fluffy af, gayy, self harm trigger warnings, self harming harry potter, so much drarry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-01-22 03:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12472576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliafuckingshepherd/pseuds/ameliafuckingshepherd
Summary: Draco Malfoy walks in on something he never wanted to see.





	1. Chapter 1

_The shard of glass on Potter’s hand trails lazily across his wrist. Drags along the vein. It doesn’t bleed, doesn’t even break the skin. He brings it to a stop, right below the start of his hand. Anticipation hangs in the air. He removes it from his arm. Brings it to his knee instead. Cuts. his hand shakes. He doesn't want to do it again. But he -has- to. So he does it again, trying to ignore the feeling of glass slipping beneath his skin. He doesn’t enjoy the pain, he isn’t doing this as a punishment. He’s doing it so the rest of him matches his forehead, his branding: stupid red scars._

 

Draco sits at the end of the slytherin table in the great hall, against the wall. He’s always been a striking boy-high cheekbones, silver eyes. He tries to stay out of plain view, if only so he can keep to himself. Draco malfoy likes to be on his own, and though he is generally liked by the slytherins, and he knows almost all of them well enough to say hello to them in the halls, he doesn’t exactly have friends. There’s no one that would visit him over the summer, the Malfoy name seems to give off a rather bad vibe. He butters his toast, looking over the great hall. Draco eats breakfast earlier than most in the castle are even awake. He finds that if he stays later than everyone else, he’s even more noticeable than when he eats at the normal time. 

 

He opens his book and crosses a leg under the other. But he can’t seem to focus. Hi s eyes skim over the other students, resting on a boy with rumpled black hair and round glasses. Draco waves at Harry Potter, but the other boy doesn’t catch his eye. Only bites his lip and turns back to his friends. A wave of disappointment cats itself across Draco. Harry’s never seemed to like Draco. He has always had a problem with judging people. He’s always pointing out bad things about others-though he would never speak them aloud. His mother tells him not to be so negative. His father tells him to keep it inside his own head. But he can’t seem to think up one single bad thing about Harry Potter. Even his scar is beautiful. Even though Draco has a curling dark mark on his wrist, and even though Harry Potter should be his enemy, draco can’t keep his thoughts away.

 

“What’s his problem?” asks Crabbe as he and goyle collapse next to Draco on the bench.  
He sighs inwardly. He doesn’t exactly dislike the two blubbering idiots, he just...doesn’t exactly have any interest in becoming closer friends than they already are. 

“Who knows.”

After a while though, they turn to Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson in favor of laughing at a gryffindor first year, who was tripping on a loose stone and dropping his bag. He sighs again and looks up just in time to see harry leaving the hall. 

Draco doesn’t know why he does it. But he stands up, muttering something about needing to get his books before potions. He feels as if something is tugging him out, plugging him to the lightning scar boy.

Slipping through the corridors far enough behind Harry that he wouldn’t notice, but close enough that Draco can see him. The raven haired boy is nearly skipping-something that is rarely seen by others-spinning a bit every now and then. Draco is beginning to wonder if he should just turn back-the clattering of silverware and laughter fading away. Suddenly, the other boy turns quickly into a classroom on the third floor glancing around (draco has to duck behind a statue) as if he was afraid someone would see him. But as soon as he’s inside, Draco hurries over to the now closed door, casting a Tenerisque* charm. 

He watches with baited breath as Harry collapses into a desk and pulls something out of his bag.

It’s a shard of glass. A simple, small shard of glass. Draco draws a short breath as The Golden Boy pulls up his sleeve, trails a corner of the glass along his wrist. _This is when i should step it. I should stop him. But...the lines of red along his wrist strike me a statue: so many red lines._ They’re beautiful. They stand against his pale skin just like his lightning scar.

But Draco draws the line when blood appears in a smooth, swirling pattern on his arm.

“Potter what are you doing?” Draco practically falls through the door, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

Harry freezes. Tugs down his sleeve. Draco almost scoffs. As if he didn’t see. The blank expression on his pretty face is replaced by a look of horror, then schooled into a warm smile. 

“Oh nothing, i was just going to study a bit for the charms quiz tomorrow.” 

“It’s dark in here. And i dont think cutting is a part of your test.” he raises an eyebrow. “Or is it?”

The smile melts-the smile that is so rarely seen-into a drooped, blank expression. 

“Why?” 

“If i tried to explain, would you understand?”

“I-I” Draco stutters. The truth is, he can’t think of anything that he would believe, that would excuse the blood now trailing down Potter’s fingers. 

“Thats what i thought.” A grin. That same, stupid grin his father has in the pictures he's seen around Hogwarts. “We all have our own ways of coping, Malfoy. “

 

“Let me see.” Draco takes a step toward the boy. 

“Let you see what?”

Even from three floors above, the thundering of students leaving the great hall is almost offensive to the silence. 

“Let me see your wrist.”

Harry tugs up his robe, still keeping that grin. Draco looks at it for a moment before prodding the slashes with his wand. They’re not deep. They’ll stop bleeding soon. 

_Knees bleed most. Shoulders hurt least. Wrists get attention._

 

But for some reason, perhaps the same thing thats stopping draco from smirking and walking out and pretending like this day never happened, he thinks this might not be for attention.

Draco knows he should leave. Knows that his nemesis is suffering, knows he should be happy about that. But he cant-some unexplainable thing holds him there, despite the curling skull on his arm. 

“You shouldn’t-” “I know i shouldn’t-” they burst out at the same time.

Draco pauses, allowing for Potter to finish. “I know i shouldn’t. Can we just pretend this never happened?”

Drac0 doesn’t respond, because he knows he wont allow that. Doesn’t respond because, suddenly, he thinks he might throw up.

He waits for potter to leave. 

Waits until the sound of the students has gone. 

Then he walks back to his dorms, the sight of the matching scars on the boy’s arms and on his forehead flashing across his thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a clusterfuck of harry's inner thoughts(italics are his thoughts, not italics aren't, and thats why the perspective changes from third person to first person) . meant to reflect someone with anxiety and bipolar disorder/manic depression. sorry for the short chapter xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit you guys within one day this fic had almost 300 hits??? im so blown away! thank you so much! in other news, sorry i havent updated yet. in the words of the author Cynthia Hand, i was below empty.

_I should have explained. i should have tried. i should have studied. i should have eaten today. i should have cut today instead of yesterday. i should have woken up earlier. i should have had toast instead of biscuits. i should have brushed my teeth before i took a shower. i should have, i should have, i should have, i should have._

Harry Potter should have been lots of things.

_should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have should have-STOP!_

_I'm sorry. i shouldn't yell._

Harry settles into his seat in charms. In the back. Away from prying eyes. away from everyone else's lies. 

Head low. Sleeves low. Eyes low. Voice low.

Flitwick's voice fades in and out. Muttering through different ways to cast a lumos to how to open magically sealed doorways, harry doesn't pay attention. He counts the freckles on his hand. 

Counts the boards in the floor. He runs his fingers over his arm, feeling the ridges of the magically healed lacerations. He's so stupid. He shouldn't have done it. He was good, he was getting better. his medications were helping, and his weight was almost up to normal and he should be-

no.

Harry Potter should be lots of things that he is not. He is not enough, he will never be enough and he is worthless, worthless, worthless. It's not that he is so miserable as he seems. He is not depressed. Two pills three times a day took care of that. He was okay okay okay okay. _we were okay_ He was not perfect, he is not perfect. Everyone says that you dont have to be perfect. Everyone says to just love yourself, to just be who you are. It's not that easy, though.

Harry didn't mean to cut himself, not at first. He was at the weasleys holding a knife. he and ron had been whittling down sticks (something Mr. Weasley had told them to do, to get them out of the way) and ron had went to use the bathroom. 

"You'll be alright, won't you? I'll be back in a moment." He said. Harry remembers it so clearly. He was young, then. Only a third year. He took the knife. He wondered why he couldn't cut himself with it? no one ever did it. But it's so easy, and it's not like it's a bad thing, is it?

No.

But once you start, apparently it's hard to stop.

So he had. Stopped, that is. Sor a year, he didn't he didn't even think about it. until the third of November in his sixth year. Exactly two weeks and twenty hours ago, he dragged the blade across his arm. Then again every day after that. He tried to ignore the feeling of it scraping beneath his skin. Tried to ignore everything. And then Draco came is. Draco. That reminds Harry-what is he going to do about Draco? Harry doesn't know. He doesn't, and he needs to stop thinking about it before he gets too upset. Everything is going to be okay.

Smile.

The worst is yet to 

come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry i havent updated, and sorry for such a short chapter! i just really wanted to get this one posted and i didnt really have time to finish it.

Draco wakes from his nightmare with a start. He isn’t in his dorm, he’s not even in is pyjamas. A glance around tells him he’s in his common room. Only in his common room. He rubs his eyes, but the dream is burned into his head.

_Harry Potter, dead on the floor, in an empty, wood paneled room. And Draco standing above him. Potter’s wrists are slashed, and Draco knows he wasn’t the one to do it. Draco leans down, removes the raven boy’s wand from his robes. The image distorts, and the body changes. The body on the floor is_ him. _Draco’s heart skips a beat. He hears the cold unforgiving laugh he knows too well, the laugh of the dark lord himself. The body on the floor flashes back to Harry, back to Draco, and with each change of the body, the lighting changes from red to green. For what seems like hours, the bodies flash, the lights flash. Draco’s head throbs with the laugh of Voldemort. His dark mark stings. He is dissolving to the flashes of thunder around him, into the walls into the floor-and then it stops._

_“Hello?”_

 

The fire is burnt down to coals in the hearth. Draco drags himself off the sofa, collecting his books and heading upstairs. According to his watch, it’s 3:37 am-he still has a decent chance of getting some sleep tonight. Draco changes into his pyjamas and slithers into bed. _eyyy slytherin to bed im a slytherin_ He thinks with satisfaction about the pun he just thought to himself, and wishes someone else could hear it, too. Draco tries to sleep, but his thoughts always drift back to the night’s dream. Draco subconsciously runs his fingers along his left arm. Across the skull and snake tattoo permanently displayed there. Across quite possibly the worst decision he’s made in his life. But he remembers why he did it: he did it for his family. To protect them. By the time Draco was eleven years old, he had figured out that he would gladly die in the place of his mother or father, and this isn't dying, but it’s close enough, isn’t it?

Draco has never been afraid to fall asleep. Except for tonight. 

~~~

Draco wakes up with rings under his eyes and sun flooding through the window. He wakes up to memories of yesterday, to memories of Harry Potter, the boy who lived, carving his arms up in a classroom. To memories of Voldemort’s laughter, to flashes of red and green light. He collects his thoughts as best he can and climbs out of bed. He notices something is off when he sees that none of his roommates are in their beds-and a quick look into the common room shows him that the whole of slytherin house must be gone. Has he missed breakfast? He checks his watch, It’s 10 am, he’s completely missed his first classes, and is going to be twenty minutes late for transfiguration. Draco throws on his robes, not bothering to comb his hair, and races out of the common room and up to McGonagall's classroom. 

Crashing not so gracefully through the door, he arrives, breathing hard, and finds the only seat available is next to Harry Potter. He ignores the flutter in his chest and focuses on not tripping as he picks his way to his seat.

“As I was saying before Mr. Malfoy so _kindly_ decided to join us, transfiguring large objects uses a lot of magic. It is very difficult to do…”

Her voice fades out as Draco tries desperately to focus his eyes. He slept terribly last night, and he’s sure he’ll have another bad sleep tonight as well.

“Er, hi.” Harry whispers.

Draco looks over-Harry looks small in a way that others rarely see him.

Draco offers a small smile, but quickly stops. He’s supposed to hate the other boy. “Hello, Potter.”

“So, um, about yesterday-”

“Mr. Potter, kindly be quiet. Now, like i said…”

“Can we talk at lunch?” Draco wishes he could say no and just forget about this, but the other boy sounds so terribly desperate. So he nods.

“Meet me by the second floor statue of the old witch as soon as the bell rings.”

Harry smiles, if only for a moment. 

And Draco pretends he doesn’t feel happy that he’s going to get to talk to Potter alone, because after all, they hate each other. 

_but maybe it won’t have to be that way? > _

he ignores the hopeful voice in his head-father always old him hope was the most dangerous of emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment, it's greatly appreciated! it makes me really happy to know people like my stuff.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> god im sorry i never write anything longer than like 900 words im sorrry
> 
> ON ANOTHER NOTE, OH MY GOD THIS HAS ALMOST 1,000 HITS THANK YOU SO MUCH

As soon as the bell rings, Draco launches himself out of potions and hurtles three floors up to meet Harry by the witch. He catches himself around the corner and stops running, making an attempt to flatten his hair and slow his breathing. 

Draco makes his best attempt at sauntering coolly up to Potter (though he doubts it’s very cool looking at all). 

“Hello.” the other boy stands up and smiles. 

“So, do you want to go on a walk?” 

Draco nods. He expects to go to the quidditch field, or maybe the lake, but Harry taps the old witch's back and a tunnel appears. 

“A secret passage.” Not so much a question as a statement. 

Potter nods- “right into honeydukes cellar. Let’s go.” 

 

~~~

 

Draco tries desperately to think of when Harry Potter had started being so smart. Or maybe he was just catching on, and he had always had a brain. In any event, Draco has never talked to Potter before, at least, not really. The boy sitting across from him in the three broomsticks is a completely different person than he had seemed before.

They’ve been talking for ages (though the clock says it’s only been fifteen minutes-trivial facts) about all sorts of things. To be honest, they keep skating around what happened yesterday. And Draco wants answers-that is why they’re here, isn't it?

“What’s it like?” 

There isn’t any point to being gentle. What’s done is done. Why pretend it isn't?

“What do you mean?”

“Wanting to hurt yourself.”

Potter’s brow furrows. “It’s like i think of it, and then i can’t rest until i do it. Sort of like filling in a square with a pencil. Until you’ve done everything evenly, there’s this little thing in your head ripping its hair out and screaming. It’s a habit.” 

“I mean...is there anything that makes you do it? Depression or something?”

“After Sirius died, things got really bad. I was diagnosed with PTSD and bipolar disorder. It was something to distract me from the feeling that i ought to off myself.” He smirks, focusing on something outside. 

Draco turns to look, but there isn’t anything there but a black dog being led by it’s owners. It nearly distracts him from the way Potter so casually threw around that he was suicidal. 

“It was like this fog. My brain sunk into this fog until it felt like it might come out of my head, but every time i cut, the fog sunk back a bit.” He sips his butterbeer, but Draco doesn’t think he can stomach it drinking it.

The fog isn’t an entirely foreign concept, but he was never that deep. 

“I wish…” 

“What?” 

“Nothing. Nevermind.” Draco can’t bear to look into his avada kedavra eyes. 

Maybe, just maybe Harry Potter isn’t the person everyone sees? 

No. 

He certainly isn’t. 

 

~~~

 

The rest of Draco’s day is as sullen as sullen can be. He gets his charms essay done as soon as he can so he can go down to the library. He loves being surrounded by books, and he has a favorite nook in the back of the library where no one ever goes and no one ever sees him. 

He leans his throbbing head against the wall. He understands what Potter meant when he talked about his brain being out of his head, but Draco doesn’t think that what he’s doing is the way to fix it. He wants to help-even if he has no clue how to. 

How can Draco help him? The sight of the scars was beautiful. It was elegant and soft, and Draco thinks he can see the appeal to doing it. But he wants Potter to stop, wants him to be safe, wants him to be loved, etc. etc. Wants him to be all the things Draco isn’t.

God, he’s too _tired_ for this.

He shuts his eyes, resting his head on the wall.

**Let him rest, just for a moment.**

His head doesn’t get any lighter, and neither does his heart. Sighing, Draco raises his head and opens his eyes. He needs to go to sleep.

The bad dreams never leave. That’s what father says. And maybe he’s right this time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is harry's chapter (filler chapter) it's short and its angsty just the way i like it-if youre here, im assuming thats how you like it, too.

The last time Harry had seen Sirius was nearly a year ago. Sirius told him he had grown up to be so handsome, so smart, so talented. If only he knew the truth. Harry was nothing than a monster, lower than dirt. He never grew to be all the things everyone said, he had only grown to be a better liar. He was a monster, he wasn’t good. A monster, lower than dirt. No. he wasnt even that. Being a monster implied you had power, that you had control. And he Harry had none of that. In muggle schooling, they had talked about controls, independant and dependant variables in science class. Harry was the control. The independent variable? His will to live. The dependant variable? Cutting. The was he centers himself. He just gets too angry sometimes...  
Once, in his fifth year, Ron and Hermione had made him really, really angry. He had forgotten what it was by now, of course. Maybe they said he was practicing quidditch too much, maybe they said that he should do his homework. at that point, he was so touchy even someone asking if he was alright would send him off screaming. He tried to keep it together, but one day, he snapped. And it was too much too take. too much stress, too much everything. His head felt as if it might implode in that moment. He slammed the bathroom door shut, flailing his fists in the air, unsure of what he should do. He punched himself in the face, something else seeming to take over his arm. He didn't even feel the pain. He did it again, harder. It wasn't enough, it didn't do anything to release the pressure in his head.He threw himself to the ground, covering his head, squeezing his hair. It was stupid, he thought. But he wasn't thinking-everything was a blank expanse filled with a distant roaring. He stood up, not knowing what to do. He did the first thing he thought of-grabbed the tweezers on the counter he shared with his dorm mated and plunged them into his arm. Really, though, it wasn't nearly as dramatic as that. He let the pain drill into his head, making the blood skippering over his forearm the outlet to his overwhelming emotions. He had had many "attacks" (that's what Hermione calls them, but Ron prefers tantrums) since then. That seemed to be only the beginning of a much bigger problem. It had started in his third year.

And it would end in his sixth. 

_Interpret it as you may, but everything you're thinking must be a little it true._

He was-no, _is_ a monster. A monster lower than dirt.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, my name is I Never Update And God Hates Me nice to meet you


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